The Julian Year

by Gregory Lamberson

  “Call the police.”

  “I tried. The circuits are busy. Please let me in.”

  Nothing.

  “Hello?” another woman said.

  “Police. Open up.”

  The door buzzed and he jerked it open.

  On the second floor, a woman in a bathrobe opened her door a crack and peered at him. “You’re no cop.”

  He raced upward. By the time he reached the fourth floor he panted for breath, and he still had one more flight of stairs to climb before he reached the roof. Darkness shrouded the last several stairs. Weizak ignored the warning on the panic bar that an alarm would go off if anyone opened the door. He hoped an alarm would go off but it didn’t.

  As he opened the door, he noticed the sky had brightened, and in the gray light the man stood at the edge of the building, his back to him. Weizak’s pulse raced when the man turned around, his eyes burrowing into him. He didn’t see the woman. The man sprinted straight for him, his arms pumping for speed.

  Weizak shut the door just as the man crashed into it, then slid the dead bolt into place. On the other side of the door, the man’s fists rained down, and Weizak heard a string of obscenities he didn’t recognize. Weizak fled down the stairs.

  “I’m calling the cops,” the woman on the second floor said.

  Outside, Weizak almost tripped over the woman he had sought to help. She lay on her back, head and limbs askew, eyes unblinking, blood radiating in a circle from the missing half of her face. Had she been pushed or had she jumped?

  Weizak gazed up at the young man, who shouted from behind the concrete wall surrounding the roof. The man pointed at him and continued shouting. Turning, Weizak ran.

  On Broadway, dozens of people ran in every direction. Black smoke billowed from a city bus lying on its side. Three corpses littered the sidewalk. An alarm rang from a shop with a shattered picture window. Police in riot gear stood in formation around a fire engine, offering protection while the firefighters fought a blaze on the third floor of an apartment building.

  Weizak searched for a taxi but spotted only emergency response vehicles. A TV news helicopter flew just above the burning building. Everywhere he looked he saw the aftermath of violence but no perpetrators.

  Maybe those three bodies were perps, he thought.

  Running across the avenue, he charged down the subway station stairway. On the first level, he swiped his MetroCard, pushed a bulky yellow turnstile, and ran across the grimy station floor to the next flight of stairs. Surprised to see the underground newsstand was open, he picked up a copy of the Daily Post and paid the vendor a dollar.

  The headline read Murder Central over photos of the Times Square crowd. Record Number of Homicides. On the platform below, he moved through the crowd. It occurred to him that Cathy could be down here right now.

  Wearing my shirt.

  Standing near a column, he found himself too preoccupied studying his fellow straphangers to read his paper. All around him, other people did the same. An almost palpable awareness of disaster filled the space between each person. He saw no police.

  His iPhone vibrated in his pocket. He took the device out and checked its screen.

  News Alert

  Police gunned down a machete-wielding man on Pacific Street in Brooklyn earlier this morning. Naseem Maheebo allegedly murdered his wife and two daughters with the machete before taking to the street. When police officers cornered him four blocks from his home, he refused to drop his weapon and advanced on them in a menacing fashion. Maheebo immigrated to the United States from Guyana eleven years ago.

  A train roared into the platform, and Weizak pocketed his iPhone, which vibrated again. The doors opened and he inched into the car, abandoning any hope of grabbing a seat. He didn’t want one anyway; standing provided a better view of the crowded car. The train surged forward and passengers swayed.

  Weizak screwed on his reporter’s cap. What had caused the mass hysteria that appeared to be tearing the city apart? He ran through a list of possibilities: contaminated water or dairy products, radiation poisoning. None of them made sense.

  Somewhere in the middle of the car a woman groaned. Several people fanned out, creating space around the metal poles. An Arabic man screamed and fell from view, no doubt tackled by someone. Bodies pressed against Weizak as others struggled to see what was happening.

  A woman with orange hair screamed, and then a jowly bald man stood, his face wet with blood. He leapt at the screaming woman and fastened his mouth over hers, kissing her. Then he twisted his head away, leaving her bloodied teeth and gums visible through tattered flesh. The man spat her lips at another woman who flinched and tried to climb over the passengers behind her.

  the bald maniac said.

  Weizak recoiled; the madman spoke the same gibberish as the man on the roof.

  A middle-aged Indian man wearing a security guard uniform threw a choke hold around the madman’s throat. The chubby man struggled in his grasp, then twisted his head and sank his teeth deep into the man’s wrist. The Indian man screamed and released the madman. Two more men seized him and a third pummeled him unconscious.

  The woman with no lips made horrible screeching sounds, like a seal.

  “Kill him,” a Hispanic woman said.

  “No, just hold him for the police,” the Indian man said.

  “What police? They’re all busy dealing with the insanity up there. We’re on our own.”

  The train slowed to a stop and the lights went out.

  A male voice came over the ceiling speakers: “Ladies and gentleman, we’re waiting for a train ahead of us to pull out due to an undisclosed situation. We apologize for the delay.”

  Weizak took a deep breath.

  The air in the train grew stuffy. The lipless woman continued to bark like a seal.

  “It’s the end of the world,” a woman with a fragile voice said.

  the madman said.

  “Kill him,” the Hispanic woman said.

  “Fuck you!”

  Weizak squeezed his eyes shut and counted to ten, fighting to remain calm. He felt the overhead lights on his eyelids, and the train resumed its journey. When he opened his eyes, he saw the people in the middle of the car staring down at the floor. They turned to the Hispanic woman.

  “What?” the woman said. “It wasn’t me. I was standing right here.”

  Like the rest of the commuters, Weizak could not move to investigate what had transpired.

  When the train pulled into the next station, he surrendered to the flow of people pushing their way out of the car, onto the platform, and into the next car. He stood by the emergency door, staring inside the car he had just fled. Two figures covered in blood lay motionless on the floor: the madman, who faced the ceiling, and the Arabic man, who lay facedown. Most of the blood on the floor appeared to have come from the second man’s throat. Weizak supposed that someone had stepped on his throat, crushing his windpipe. A few feet away was a pool of vomit, mashed with footprints.

  People boarding the car spotted the corpses and fled.

  As the doors closed and the train surged forward, Weizak continued to stare at the dead men.

  Seven

  Morelli opened the door of Gracie’s Corner on the corner of East Eighty-sixth Street, and Rachel entered ahead of him. A dozen patrons glanced in their direction with relieved expressions.

  The manager greeted them with a grave look and escorted them to a table next to the windows overlooking the street. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “I could really use a beer,” Morelli said.

  “So could I,” Rachel said.

  “That makes three of us.” The manager’s tone suggested that no one was getting a beer at this hour.

  “Two coffees,” Morelli said.

  “Coming right up.”

  After the manager left, Morelli nodded outside. “At least the sun will be up soon.”

  Rachel focused on the building across the avenue. “It’s only been
seven hours, and this already feels like the longest shift I’ve ever worked. It’s like living in some war torn country.”

  “It’s been the same for every cop in the city.”

  She massaged her temples. “I feel guilty getting breakfast while everyone else is still out there.”

  “Our tour just became a double shift, and we skipped our break. We’re not supposed to eat?”

  She knew he was right. “When do you think they’ll tell us what’s really going on?”

  “When they know?”

  She sighed. “This thing shows no sign of slowing down. What if they keep sending us out?”

  “We’ll just have to watch each other’s back, like always.”

  A short Colombian man brought over two cups of coffee. “Are you ready to order?”

  “I’ll have an Italian omelet,” Morelli said.

  “Make mine a western,” Rachel said.

  The server walked away.

  “This can’t keep up,” Morelli said. “It has to be mass hysteria.”

  Outside, a Japanese man with silver hair parked a blue Plymouth at the curb. He got out and looked around.

  A short Puerto Rican man with curly hair ran over to the Japanese man and leapt high into the air. He drove his feet into the Japanese man’s chest, pinning him in the joint of the Plymouth’s door.

  Rachel raised her eyebrows. “Hey!”

  Placing one hand on the roof of the car and the other on top of the door, the Puerto Rican man lowered himself to the sidewalk. He seized the Japanese man’s head in both hands and slammed his face through the car window.

  Morelli sprang from his chair. “Let’s go.”

  Rachel followed him out of the diner. They raced around the corner of First Avenue just as the Plymouth peeled out and turned onto Eighty-sixth Street. The Japanese man lay on his side, one foot twitching. Rachel rolled him over. His open eyes didn’t blink, and blood gurgled out of his throat, which had been sawed open on broken glass.

  Morelli hopped into their patrol car and started the engine. “Come on!”

  Rachel set the dead man’s head down on the sidewalk and turned around. The manager and half a dozen people stood at the corner. “Call 911!” She ran to the car and got in.

  Morelli stepped on the gas before she had even closed the door. “Call it in.”

  Rachel raised her hand radio. “This is unit sixteen. We just witnessed a homicide outside Gracie’s Corner at East Eighty-sixth and First Avenue. The suspect is a Hispanic male, maybe five foot seven, with curly black hair. We’re in pursuit of a blue Plymouth heading west on Eighty-sixth Street.”

  “Copy that,” the dispatcher said.

  The street seemed deserted except for the two vehicles. They ran a red light at Second Avenue, then Morelli gunned the patrol car and came up alongside the Plymouth’s right side. “Pull your ass over!”

  The driver showed no signs of slowing down, so Morelli jerked the steering wheel to the left, slamming the patrol car against the Plymouth’s side.

  “Are you crazy?” Rachel said.

  The Plymouth veered left, hopped the sidewalk, and crashed through the glass doors of the East 86th Street Cinemas.

  Morelli stomped on the brake, and the patrol car screeched to a stop in the middle of the street, just shy of Third Avenue. “Well, he didn’t have to do that.” He opened his door and ran across the street to the theater.

  Rachel followed. When she reached the snow-streaked sidewalk she drew her Glock. Morelli faced the smashed doors. The Plymouth had come to a stop in the illuminated lobby, and the driver’s door hung open.

  “The cleaning people must be here.” Stepping on broken glass, Morelli entered.

  Rachel had served in the navy, and the cold gray interior reminded her of an aircraft carrier. She circled the car from one side while Morelli circled it from the other. Shattered glass covered the outside of the empty vehicle.

  Without speaking, they moved to an escalator used to access the theater’s upstairs auditoriums. The metal stairs faded into gloom. Morelli hissed at her, then pointed at the ground level auditorium doors. Rachel motioned to the two doors closer to them. Footsteps sounded above and she turned to the escalator.

  A heavyset Hispanic man with a thick mustache stood paralyzed at the railing, his face sheet white. “What’s going on?”

  “Are you the porter?” Morelli said.

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a Plymouth in the lobby. You’d better get a broom. You have a lot of work ahead of you.”

  The man raised his eyebrows.

  “Did anyone come up there just now?” Rachel said.

  “No, no one.”

  “Then stay up there where it’s safe until we say it’s okay to come down. See if you can reach 911.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  The officers crept to the nearest doors. Rachel opened one and peered inside. With the cleaning lights on, the auditorium was brighter than any she had seen before. Empty popcorn bags, oversize soda cups, and candy boxes lay scattered on the floor.

  Morelli swept past her and performed a perimeter sweep with his Glock. “Clear.”

  Rachel entered behind him. “Thanks for telling me.”

  Morelli headed down the aisle. “Let’s check the exit.”

  Following at a close distance, Rachel scanned the floor between the rows of seats. Hearing the scuff of a shoe on the carpet behind her, she turned in time to register the perp swinging a gleaming silver fire extinguisher at her. The impact rattled her skull, and she plummeted to the floor before she could call out to Morelli. As darkness closed in, she heard gunshots.

  Weizak exited the Houston Street subway station and ran up the stairs to breathe fresh air. It was a short walk to the Daily Post at One Hudson Square.

  The sun had risen, and he counted three overturned cars between him and his destination, including a police cruiser. Firefighters hosed down a blaze in a diner that spewed thick black smoke into the sky. One body lay in the street, another on a cement island.

  A truck careened around a corner without slowing down, and Weizak dove out of its way. The truck hopped onto the curb, crushed a metal trash can, and wove back onto the street.

  Sitting up with his heart racing, Weizak had no way of knowing if the driver had attempted to run him down or had only just missed killing him in a blind panic. Rising, he broke into a run. Gunshots rang out a few blocks away, followed by return fire. Four unarmed teenagers came into view and disappeared behind the fire engine. Weizak ran faster, his lungs hurting from the cold air.

  As he closed in on the building, a glass door opened, and Sam, one of the building’s security guards, beckoned him forward.

  Weizak came to an abrupt stop as a caravan of white refrigeration trucks used for transporting corpses to the morgue rumbled past him. The lead vehicle had almost transported him there under its wheels. As the last truck cleared his path, he was grateful to see Sam still holding the door open.

  “Hurry, Mr. Weizak!”

  Did Sam see someone behind him? Weizak ran as fast as he could, and Sam stepped back from the door, allowing him to run into the lobby. The door closed behind him, and when he turned around Sam locked it.

  “You’re lucky you made it alive,” Sam said.

  Gasping, Weizak said, “Yeah?”

  “Look at those bodies out there. I couldn’t get through to 911. No one’s even checked on them. When my time comes, I hope I don’t wind up facedown on some sidewalk.”

  Weizak glanced at the portable TV mounted behind Sam’s station. A newscaster with a grave expression spoke to the camera. “What’s news?”

  Sam slumped in his seat. “The body count’s too high to keep up with. The mayor’s supposed to come on soon. Screw him. I want to hear from the goddamned president.”

  Weizak tried to catch his breath. “I’m sure that’s in the cards. Are you alone today?”

  Sam nodded. “I’ll be okay. You go ahead.”

  Weiza
k walked to the elevators and pushed a call button. When the elevator door opened he boarded the car and pressed the button for the fifth floor. The obituary department shared space with the photo archive, which meant a lot of dusty filing cabinets, old metal fans, and bulky computers.

  Weizak found Ruth sitting in her cubicle, surrounded by stacks of paper, the thick lenses of her glasses reflecting her monitor. He hung his coat on an old wooden rack. “I’m here.”

  She didn’t look up from her work. “Thank God for minor miracles.”

  “What’s the death toll up to?”

  She glanced at her screen. “Three thousand six hundred forty-eight and counting. That’s just in Manhattan. The whole city’s at fifteen thousand, and the state may be as high as thirty five thousand.”

  Weizak sank into his seat, speechless.

  “By midnight this will be a global epidemic.”

  Weizak turned numb. Global? That ruled out contaminated anything as a cause.

  “The murder spree is coming in waves. It started on the East Coast—Eastern time. Then reports came in from Chicago—Central time. Then Mountain time, then Pacific time.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. Time zones are man-made.”

  “Well, then this epidemic, whatever it is, is following man-made precepts. Every hour on the hour, homicide reports come in from the next time zone in line.”

  “Why would the murders start in the Eastern time zone? Others are ahead of us.”

  “Manhattan really is the center of the universe.”

  Weizak took out his iPhone. “I have to call my mother.”

  “Good luck.”

  He selected his mother’s phone number and touched it. “I have to try.”

  “All circuits are busy. Please try your call again . . .”

  “E-mail’s going strong,” Ruth said.

  His mother rarely used e-mail, but Weizak booted up his computer. “How many obits have you written?”

  “None. All I’ve done is alphabetize them. Rosen says we’re only going to run death rolls for now. The way things are going, I don’t see us ever catching up.”